San Juan Capistrano

California

It was the summer of the first moon landing, and my Dad got it into his head to roll out the spanking new Chevy Bel-Air, toss his three kids into the back of it, and drive from one end of the country to the other and back again.
It didn't quite go down like that. My father is a very meticulous man. But whatever possessed him to risk permanent psychological damage by sharing three weeks of his life, twenty-four hours a day, with three small children -- albeit his own -- is the kind of decision families talk about for generations.
He had a few tricks up his sleeve, though. He would hustle us all out of bed at four o'clock in the morning, stuff us into the car like poultry, and zoom away into the still-dark night, driving as far west as he could before stopping for breakfast, and usually clearing five-hundred miles by noon.
His children would be essentially comatose for most of that time, the traffic would be non-existant, state patrols would be too busy picking up the donuts to notice the rocket flying by from east to west, and the flat, hot hammer of the sun would remain at bay from nearly start to finish.
We saw a lot of places that summer, from Gettysburg to Monterey, from Mount Rushmore to the St. Louis Arch. And every stop along the way seemed to be filled with just the sorts of things kids love to get their parents to buy on trips like this one. That is, cheesy, touristy, junk.
The three of us were in heaven.
My father, not so much. But he willingly forked out the cabbage on one reasonably-priced item for the day, knowing it was a way to cement the memory of that place into our young and fertile noggins.
By the time we hit the west coast, we were hip deep in kitschy cr@p, and we still had the length of the country to cover on our return.
Inevitably, we wound our way down to Capistrano, and something about it seemed to break my Dad's heart. It wasn't in particularly good shape at the time, the world knew it best for a noodle-headed song about the swallows, and there, in what was essentially a house of God, they were selling more of that junk than you can imagine.
For once, I recall being disappointed as well. I was about as religious as any boy not heading for a sainthood, which meant I got the picture-book version and not much else. But it seemed, if not entirely sacrilegious, then in really lousy taste, to set up shop for swallow whistles and plastic crosses in a place with that kind of history, and that original purpose.
Many years later, I knew I had to return to the mission -- I was just too close to pass it up -- but I did so with a kind of dread, recalling the moneychangers who had overwhelmed the temple before.
There are redemption stories in all our lives, I imagine, and this is one for me.
The place is beautiful now. They have restored it to the point where it stands on its own as an elegy to the mission that it once was.
The gardens are well-kept, and breathtakingly beautiful. The refurbished central square is gorgeous, and its surrounding buildings look crisp, well-constructed, and authentic down to the smallest detail.
Inside them you'll find what are essentially two museums: one for liturgical art and artifacts, the other for native american art, history and culture. The barracks (it served as a fort for part of its history), and friars' quarters have been restored and appointed as well as any of that sort of exhibit I have ever seen.
And the old mission itself, a marvel of architecture for 18th century South California has been refurbished and repurposed as a set of ruins, august, bright and somber by turn; but, again, simply beautiful.
And the new cathedral built outside the grounds -- folks, I'm running out of superlatives here. Let me just say that you will need to make that extra trip around the corner to get there. The exterior and interior will show you how a modern-day Catholic church can be constructed to both complement and act as a jewel for a community.
You have to go. I implore you with all the implorin' I got.
It's a marvel, it's part of our history, and it's less than half an hour from the John Wayne Airport.
And the cheesy tourist stuff? Oh, that's moved across the street now, in "galleries" and gift shops where it probably should have always been.
Don't get me wrong, you can still pick up a thing or two in their gift store. But it is primarily devoted now to liturgical items, many hand-crafted, and some commanding OC-like prices for their artistry and one-of-a-kind nature.
It's not the place I remember as a child. And it is has gone almost as far in the opposite direction as it could go.
Aren't you glad when a story ends well? This one ended beautifully for me.

@Mark Rentz You can't go wrong making a beeline to Orange County. There's just so d@mned much to do. I suppose it might not be the best place to live if you're not fond of exorbitant rents and mortgages. But the food was priced comparably to our area, and the gas was 25-50 cents more expensive by the gallon. A guy getting paid good coin (I dunno, say, a software engineer) might make a go of it. I think I love the Northwest a bit too much to really consider it seriously, though. But I can always visit...